The Anglo-American Loan
by Taxie
Summary: A new world order post WWII with new leaders and a new balance of power. US/UK, and very much in that order. Dub-con-ish, BDSMish. You know. Politics as usual. Companion fic to "December 8, 1940."


Author's Note: This does get a bit dub-con, as the Anglo-American loan itself was a bit dub-con.

# # #

America was sitting at his desk in Washington DC, watching the leaves change colors. Pink poplars; red oaks; yellow maples, the air warm and sweet with harvest and, at last, peace. September was proving lovely in 1945, and not just because of the weather.

Rubbing his face with his palms, America slumped forward onto the desk, allowing his glasses to slump forward with him. He was still jetlagged from returning from Japan, as harrowing as August had been. The cool weather and calming colors of his land were relaxing, almost _too_ relaxing.

It also probably wasn't helping that he had scheduled nothing today. Sure, there was always a mountain of paper ready to be pushed, but he couldn't be assed at the moment.

Besides, today was somewhat of a special day. He was expecting a visitor. A visitor who hadn't confirmed arrival as of yet, but America knew very well that it took about two days for ships to sail across the Atlantic. This was the second day since America had gotten confirmation that a particular missive had been received, and he was pretty sure that the recipient was traveling as fast as the waves would buoy ships-

When America's phone rang, he nearly jumped out of the chair. After a breath and then chuckling at himself, he answered. The secretary said that he had a visitor. America told the secretary to let the visitor through.

_Here we go_, America thought, sitting up straight and looking at the door. _Here it-_

The door slammed open and then _shut_, revealing England, dressed appropriately in a somewhat-worn gray suit, an envelope in his hand and an absolutely _furious_ look on his face. It only took two strides for the other nation to approach America's desk, and the envelope hit the desk with a _thwop_, displacing America's other papers.

Bracing his hands against the desk, England leaned forward. "What the hell is this?" he asked, indicating the letter. America looked down at the letter and then up at England, letting the silence hang for a second.

"Hello," he responded mildly. "I trust you had a good trip?"

England took a breath and exhaled through his nose, fixing America with a _glare_ that he usually reserved for enemy U-Boats. "Kindly spare me your platitudes," he responded, sounding like he was chewing on every syllable. "I asked you a question."

America looked up at England for another moment, before reaching over for the envelope and sliding the paper inside out. Unfolding it, he looked down at the paper before looking up at England again. "It appears to be my letter informing you as to the end of our Lend-Lease agreement," America responded, even though he knew _perfectly well_ what it was prior to opening the envelope. "Now that our mutual enemies have been defeated, there's no reason to continue on with it."

England fixed him with a deadpan look, furrowing his impressive brows down at America, who blinked. "You do remember being deployed to my land, yes?"

"Of course," America replied, leaning back in his chair so hopefully England would stop breathing in his face. This was probably going to get worse before it got better, though.

"Do you not recall how _half of it _has been smashed into _bits_ by our erstwhile fascist foes?" England continued, getting that condescending _edge_ in his voice that had always made America want to hit him. "A little thing called the blitz?"

However, this time around, America wouldn't need to hit him. Or, at least, not hit him physically. "Yes, I recall," he said. "Terrible. Here's hoping that our joint efforts ensure that nobody has to endure such ever again."

Oh, England was getting _angry_, now; America could see the hitch in the other's shoulders and how his face was slowly reddening. America wondered if this is how England felt about _him_, way back in the day when the deadliest weapon anybody had was a musket and bayonet.

_Things have changed_, America thought. _And they are going to change for good._

"Do you somehow think that the cities have rebuilt themselves overnight?" England asked, seemingly having a _very_ difficult time keeping his temper in check. "Food popped magically out of the ground? Buried clothing unearthed? Coal and fuel pouring from the sky?"

"No," America replied, waiting for the explosion.

He didn't have to wait long. "So _why_ are you cutting off assistance without so much as a _word_?" England _shouted_, the sheer volume of his voice surprising; England generally was reasonably soft-spoken, but he definitely had a general's voice when he wanted it. Probably due to all that time screaming orders on the bow of a ship, America figured, trying not to _flinch_ too much. Even though it had been a long time since the other was the father-figure, England raising his voice would probably always be somewhat unnerving to America. "I've been utterly _decimated_ by this whole bloody farce and you're going to _starve me out_? As I remember it, we fought on the same side!"

Okay. Deep breath. America sighed out, and looked up again. "The war is over," America replied, as evenly as possible. "The war is over, and Lend-Lease was a wartime maneuver." He folded his hands on the desk and straightened his shoulders. This was how it was going to be from now on, he told himself. If he was going to take control, he was going to have to look the part.

England looked at him for a long moment, old green eyes in a young face sizing him up. "You're making a power move," he remarked, voice back at normal volume. "You're making a power move, and you're making it on _me_."

America sat back in his chair, taking another steadying breath. "The majority of my people see no reason to continue handing out our resources like Halloween candy," he replied. "We supported you during the first war and you defaulted on the loans. We kept food in your bellies and bullets in your guns during the second. I'm not even going to pretend to believe that Lend-Lease is ever going to be paid back and, frankly, I don't care if it ever is. That was a military move, and it was successful." England's eyes were still impassive and green; it was like talking to an oak tree. "The war is done, and _we_ are done paying your bills."

_Good job, Alfred_, America congratulated himself. _I deserve that 'superpower' label. _It had been a relatively recent acquisition, after all.

England, on the other hand, looked anything but congratulatory. America was privately surprised he hadn't killed the rest of Europe with hateful looks over the past few centuries; he was doing a bang-up job of one now. "Listen, you ungrateful _shit_," England started, voice low and rumbling in the back of his throat like an impending storm; frankly, this was more frightening than the yelling. "I have lost _three times_ more people to this miserable war than you have. I have been _in this war_ since 1939. We are _still_ under the yoke of rations, and have _nothing_ to get us back on our feet. This winter will be hard - I can feel it - and we have no coal. We are looking at starting _bread rationing_. This war has opened the floodgates on _your_ prosperity and has driven _me_ into the _ground_, and you will leave me and my people to freeze, starve, and _rot_?"

Being called an 'ungrateful shit' caused America's own anger to spike up, but he managed to contain it to simply rising to his feet - he felt like industrial buildup, like something _big_ that was about to blow the world out of the water, but with something other than bombs. He stood; he rose; he towered; he was not going to shrink away this time. Leaning forward and planting his hands on the desk gave him anchorage, and his words gave purpose.

"As if this is somehow _my fault_," America responded, his own blue gaze shaping and reshaping into something as gunmetal-solid as England's. "As if Europe deciding to fall on it's own fucking sword is the fault of a nation who tried to stay _out_ of it."

"If you had the foresight to intervene earlier, we might not be in this mess," England responded acidly.

"And if you or France had kicked Germany in the balls back in the 1930s, we _definitely_ wouldn't be in this mess," America retorted, shaking his head. "But you didn't, and here we are."

England looked at America. America looked right back. There was a long silence.

"You are staining your hands with English civilian blood," England managed after a moment, leaning back from the desk. "The ones who died during the bombings the Kraut will have to atone for, but the ones who don't make it now due to lack of nourishment, shelter, medicine, or warmth will be due to American greed."

America's lip ticked up slowly, but there was no humor in it. "I have a lot of civilian blood on my hands," he responded, vague memories of mushroom clouds billowing up into the air and an atomic flash echoing in his mind. "I have a feeling I will be up to my elbows in it for some time, war or not." Clearing his throat, he sat down again, crossing his ankle over his knee and looking over at the other nation. "Just because Lend-Lease is over does not mean that alternative arrangements can't be had."

England was as still as a statue for a long moment. "I see," he said. "What is it to be, then, signing myself over as the 49th state? The beginning of the American empire with me as your first vassal?"

America snorted. "I think I have to give Hawaii the privilege first if they want it," he responded. "And I have no desire to begin my own empire." Or at least, no desire to begin it the _traditional_ way, but, well. "It didn't appear to end that well for anybody else who tried it."

"I am still the British Empire," England said, green eyes _hard_ and voice low.

"You're England," America replied. "From what I hear, a lot of your empire is less than pleased and you're up to your eyeballs in debt to _them_, as well."

England was silent.

"I'm willing to offer a loan," America said after a moment, when the silence became too much. "An actual loan. One that you will pay back."

"A loan," England echoed, the look on his face flat and impassive.

"With conditions," America continued. "Admittedly there are a lot of them, and I'm pretty sure every single one of them is going to anger you, but you always have the right to say no."

Of course, saying no would likely court default and literal disaster, and America was sure that England knew it. England continued to fix America with his impassive stare. America took that as permission to continue.

"You have to get rid of Empire preference," America started, steepling his fingers. "You're acquainted with my production capabilities by now… there needs to be somewhere for my goods to go. Your Sterling Area setup isn't going to work since it inhibits that. You are going to have to make the pound convertible to the dollar, and you're going to have to sign Bretton Woods. Don't think we haven't noticed you slacking on passing it."

While England's face still remained impassive, color was starting to paint its way across his cheekbones. "So you're looking to dismantle the Empire, replace the pound with the dollar in world affairs, and put yourself at the center of the new economic system," he said, voice _tight_.

America didn't deign that with a response. "And there will be interest on the loan."

"_Interest_?" England snapped, his very body starting to shake with anger. "You are heaping indignity upon indignity on me, ripping away what took _centuries_ to build and _know_ that I am arse over tits in debt and you want to charge _interest_?"

"It will have to get through Congress," America said with a shrug. "Understandably, my people aren't willing to throw money around at the moment. Interest will make it an easier sell."

Another long pause. "You are a bastard," England said, after a moment.

America snorted. "One could say I learned from the best," he responded mildly, and then stood up. "Take it or leave it."

England said nothing, but turned around and headed for the door.

America closed his eyes and exhaled, relieved that this was almost over. "Arthur," he said, when England's hand was on the doorknob.

England didn't turn back, didn't look back; however, he paused.

"I'll be having you as well," America said. "Not frequently. Just like the loan, expect it will be a one-time event. When you are ready to accept, call the secretary and tell her to pencil you in."

The door opened; the door closed. America stood there and listened to England's footsteps disappear down the hall. Once America was sure he was gone, America blew a raspberry and flopped back into his seat.

Jesus Christ, this superpower stuff was stressful. He turned his head and looked out the window at the vista of trees and American flags, and watched the sun slowly dip down toward the horizon. He rested his hand against the arm of the chair and marveled at the feeling growing within himself, something that felt like a long-buried seedling breaking the surface.

It felt like power.

# # #

Five days later, America got a call from the secretary saying that Arthur Kirkland wished an audience. America gave the secretary the address of his Virginia cabin; it was an isolated property out in the old maple forests with no neighbors, but not more than an hour outside of the Washington D.C. area. Once the secretary had the missive, America tidied up his desk and left the office.

On the way to the cabin, America picked up a box of sundries from his house to assist with the planned evening, and also stopped by the grocery store. It was relieving to see that the shelves were slowly starting to fill with food again; rationing was still in effect but America was pretty sure it would end shortly. After a browse around the aisles, America emerged with the ingredients for cottage pie, and a box of tea. No doubt it was probably shit-quality tea, but America didn't know that much about it and at least it was _tea_.

Thus supplied, he turned on the radio in his car and drove out to the Virginia cabin with a _sigh_ \- it had been years since he'd been to this property due to gasoline rationing, and it was one of his favorites. Even just driving down the gravel road to the place was cathartic.

The cabin itself was a single room, with a big fireplace, open beams in the ceilings, a bed in the corner, a table in the middle, and a desk on the side. It had running water but no electricity, which suited America just fine. He set up the kerosene lamps and cheerfully swabbed the place free of dust before putting together the cottage pie and popping it in the oven. He started a fire in the fireplace; a kettle went on the hob.

Once the cabin was set up, he put the box of supplies he'd brought next to the bed, and then settled down in an armchair to read while the food cooked.

….about an hour later, America could hear a car rumble up the drive, almost exactly on time. The engine cut. America had been dozing, and rose lazily at the knock.

Opening the door produced England, dressed in slacks and a green button-down t-shirt, holding a briefcase in one hand, with a sweater tucked under his other arm.

"Come in," America said, stepping aside before England could glare a hole into him. "I made dinner."

England stepped into the cabin when invited and looked around at the relatively simple surroundings and the kerosene lights. "So I smell," he responded evenly. "I assume your secretary told you I accepted the loan, then?"

America hummed. "Well, no, she didn't. She just told me you wanted a meeting. Are you not?"

England looked over at him. "Interest rates no higher than two percent, and fixed," he said quietly, far more subdued than the first meeting.

"That's fine," America said, motioning for England to sit down at the table. After a moment's pause, England went with the urgings and sat down, his eyes taking in the simple place settings. As angry as he'd been the first go-around, he now looked almost depressed. America was glad he'd remembered the tea. He went to the cupboard to fish it out and put the box in front of England, a mug, and the kettle of hot water. "You can go ahead and make it," America said, going over to check on the pie. "I'd probably find some way to screw it up."

England looked down at the box of tea, and raised an eyebrow at America's back. "For a nation who just threw me over a barrel, you're certainly being considerate." He did start to make the tea, however, and wasn't bitching about the quality so America gave himself a mental pat on the back for a great idea.

America sighed, and pulled the cottage pie out of the oven, setting it on the range. "I have hardly thrown you over a barrel," he replied. "Perhaps it's a deal you can't refuse, but…"

"I've more or less mortgaged myself to you," England interrupted, but his voice was dry, rather than angry. "I've mortgaged myself to you and you're ripping my economic system to shreds. I am also assuming that you are literally going to put your cock in me tonight to further assert your dominance, and considering the surroundings you could very well do so with me over a literal barrel."

America snorted as he watched England fill his mug with water. "Hadn't considered doing it over a literal barrel," he remarked, looking as England pinched the tag of the tea bag between his fingers and bobbed it up and down. "This is a loan with a favorable interest rate," he reminded the other. "It's not a takeover."

England looked up and raised an eyebrow. "It's an economic vice grip," he responded. "I admit I appreciate the underhandedness of the move, but don't try to pretend to sainthood, here."

America was quiet as he went to the icebox; he picked up a pint of milk and set it next to England for the tea. "You said at the beginning of this that you'd rather beg me for help than Germany for leniency. Correct?"

England had broken his gaze to look down at the pint of milk. "That is correct, yes," he responded, picking up the pint to carefully open it.

"Do you regret the decision?" America asked, going over to poke at the cottage pie. It seemed to be about done resting at this point, but no doubt if he served it at the moment, England would bitch about it not being timed right with the tea or something.

England snorted, and removed the teabag from his cup before splashing in some milk with a very practiced motion. "If you're asking would I rather go through this or have gone through a Nazi takeover, my answer is the obvious one. That still doesn't make this _ideal_."

"So if you've got to be over somebody's barrel, be pleased you're over mine," America suggested, fishing out a spoon to plate up some of the pie. Potential English snitfit be damned; America was hungry. He plated up a second and slid it in front of England. "Anyway, Germany's shepard's pie probably isn't nearly as good as mine is."

England gave America a world-weary look before looking down at the food. "This is a cottage pie," he informed the younger. "Shepard's pie is made with mutton."

"I assume you'll eat it either way," America replied, sliding into the seat across from England and picking up his fork.

England took a sip of his tea. "That I shall," he said, and picked up his own.

# # #

Admittedly, the evening was proceeding a little differently than England had originally expected. Given the outright churlishness of his fellow ally at the first meeting, England had expected a _lot_ more gloating.

Though, to be fair, England thought as he pushed the last bite of cottage pie onto his fork with the blade of his knife, America probably knew that he didn't _have_ to gloat. The whole situation had been set up so perfectly for the other that England would have accused America of planning the whole thing, if only setting up two World Wars and a depression wasn't far beyond America's capabilities. He wasn't going to give the other that much credit.

Clearly, though, he was going to have to give the other more credit than he'd originally bargained for. The cottage pie was good, though: rich and meaty, loaded with carrots and onions. Once the last crust of bread had mopped up the last dribble of grease and gravy, England looked up at the other.

America was in the middle of demolishing his third helping - the boy always had an insatiable appetite - and seemed to be focusing on his food like it was the only thing in the room. This was fine with England, who wasn't sure if he were looking forward to the moment when _he_ was the central object of that focus, rather than dinner.

Either way, he supposed, he would endure. In his experience, though, these sorts of encounters didn't take place between allies in the first place and the victor certainly didn't provide the conquered with a full meal in their home cuisine before taking their due.

_The world is changing_, England thought absently, leaning back into his seat, watching America devour what was in front of him. _Join or die_.

Irony wasn't usually lost on England; it wasn't now. Perhaps sensing his eyes, America looked up and smiled. England ticked his lip in response.

"There's whiskey in the cupboard," America said, carefully rearranging his mashed potatoes in a more edible configuration. "Help yourself. And pour me one, while you're at it."

England nodded, and rose from the table to cross to the cupboard. Technically, asking your guest to go fetch the drinks was rather rude, in his opinion, but considering the situation he figured he was fortunate America hadn't decided to fuck him sideways with the bottle.

…_all right, Arthur, he probably wouldn't do that_, he told himself, taking a couple of highball glasses out of the cupboard and setting them on the sink. _…probably not_. He poured three fingers of whiskey into each of the glasses… and then downed one in a gulp, taking a breath as the fiery liquid flew down his esophagus like an incendiary bomb.

"Please don't get completely snockered," America said, not having turned his head.

That got a snort from England as he poured himself another glass. "Unless you've got a distillery's worth, this isn't going to do it." Taking both glasses, he walked back to the table, where America had finished his meal and took the untouched glass with a nod.

"Yes, I'm aware you can put away quite a few," America responded mildly, sipping at his own drink. England watched him lazily swirl the amber liquid in the glass for a moment; America looked up and over. "If you have questions, you can ask them."

England folded his hands together and looked across the table. "Who are you?" he asked.

"The United States of America," America responded immediately. "Alfred F. Jones, to some."

"No additional name with the changes?" England asked lightly, picking up his drink. "Not the American Empire?"

"I dislike the concept as it's known," America responded, leaning back in his chair and taking another drink. "Besides, I hardly think being a champion of free trade would make me an empire."

"It does when your economy is set to build an monetary empire from it," England replied drolly, but shook his head, not wanting to argue the semantics. "Are you still my ally, then?"

America blinked. "Of course," he replied easily. "What would make you think otherwise?"

…that just got a raised eyebrow from England, and America chuckled, standing up from the table and approaching him, broad shoulders silhouetted by the glow of the fire behind. Walking over to England, he leaned his hip against the table and slowly drained the rest of his whiskey from the glass. England watched the other's throat contract.

When America put down the glass, he spoke: "It's a new world order," the other said with a shrug. "After the first war, I left the world stage, and that was a mistake. It's not a mistake I'm going to make twice. I'm also not an idiot, despite what half of your political entourage seems to think. Having you as an empire benefits me not at all when you will inevitably turn away my trade and do all you can to protect yourself once you're able. I'm not going to give you the chance to retreat back into your empire. I'm blowing it open."

America put down his now-empty glass on the table with a _clink_; England's eyes followed it. After a moment, America reached over and picked up England's mostly full glass, swirling the liquid absently. "I'm not the ally of the British Empire. I never have been. _Your_ ally, though? Of course. I've lost more men aside yours than I care to count." America paused until England's glance shifted back over to him. "You raised me."

"A fine job I did," England responded, perfectly even. He wasn't even sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

America's lip ticked up, and his eyes glittered clear blue skies behind his glasses. "A fine one indeed. I learned well." Here, America leaned forward, so close that their noses were almost touching and England almost went cross-eyed trying to hold the gaze. "For instance, I know perfectly well that if the positions here were reversed, you'd be doing the exact same thing to me."

England blinked, inhaling America's exhale. He said nothing, and watched as that very-close red mouth curved up into a smile.

"Cheers," America said quietly, and England would have rolled his eyes had he not felt a hand on his neck, warm and wide with the thumb pressed gently into his esophagus. England _froze_ and the thumb traveled higher, up under the jawbone, and England realized that America was trying to tip his head back; he yielded to the position and felt the curved edge of the whiskey glass rest against his bottom lip. America tipped the glass forward slightly, and a slow trickle of whiskey ran into England's mouth.

Held in position, the only response England could make was to swallow; of course, his hands were unbound and he _could_ fight it if he wanted; he could make a noise of disagreement if he wanted, but to what end? If America wanted to, he could snap England's neck with a twitch of his fingers.

He wouldn't, though. England knew he wouldn't… it would serve no purpose for the other nation, first. Second… second, there was still some tinge of tenderness in the touch, England thought. Maybe. The grip wasn't painful, and the whiskey wasn't choking him.

Swallow. Swallow. Swallow.

When the glass was empty, America pulled it back, and his thumb reached up to brush away a drop of wetness from the corner of England's mouth. The space of a smile later, America's mouth was on his, wasting no time on parting his mouth and thoroughly dominating it.

England inhaled quickly through his nose and his hands shot out to grip at America's biceps, pulling the other forward and giving as good as he got. If this _was_ to be what it seemed to be, he was _not_ going to be thrown into the shadows.

…he almost choked on his own exhale, though, when he felt America _lift him out of the chair_ and pin him up against the rough-hewn wall of the cabin, feet dangling in the air. America had him braced firmly with forearms against the wood and huge hands hooked under England's armpits. England dangled and panted slightly, well aware that holding him like this was _nothing_ for the other nation, staring down into those blue eyes.

"So do you yield?" America asked.

"I've accepted the terms of the loan," England reminded the other, though he was reasonably sure that's not what America was talking about.

America snorted. "I mean to me. Sexually."

England looked down at the other, feeling his heartbeat in his ears. "Are you asking for _consent_?"

"Yes," America said, still holding England aloft like he weighed nothing. There wasn't even a bit of strain about the bastard's breathing. "Heroes don't rape people."

That gained America a deadpan look, despite everything. "Quite," England said dryly. "America-"

"Alfred," America interrupted him.

Sigh. "Alfred," England murmured quietly. "I don't want to be your sex slave. That's not in the agreement. Don't ask that of me." Another breath. "Please." England at least wanted _some_ dignity left, for the love of everything.

"I'm not," America responded immediately. "I wouldn't. As I told you at my office, this would be a one-time affair." After a moment, America carefully set England down. "Not to say that I don't think I deserve it, though." Cue the cocky smile.

England looked up at him, shaking his arms out a little now that he was back on the ground. "A one-time affair," he repeated.

"Yes," America confirmed.

"No whips, burning, cutting, breaking bones, strangulation…?"

As England continued, America's face grew more and more incredulous. "Europeans have bizarre kinks," he commented after a moment. "That stuff seems a bit heavy for me."

England sighed, and rubbed his arms. "Those parts are usually less sexual and more punitive," he pointed out wearily.

"I'm not punishing you," America replied. "I just want you to yield to me."

England looked up at those clear blue eyes, and his mouth curled. "Seems to be the theme of the month," he sighed. "Yes, America, I yield." That is what he came here to do originally, at least.

"Call me Alfred," Alfred reminded him. "Arthur."

England looked down, sighed, and then looked up. "Alfred," he repeated obediently.

America smiled. "Great," he said, and turned away from the wall to go retrieve the box next to the bed. England could hear him rumbling around in it, and exhaled unevenly as his pulse quickened. When America turned around, England saw a long black strip in the other's grip; a blindfold. England took a step back against the wall, and America turned his head.

"Don't like blindfolds?" America asked, striding forward with the strip in his hands.

England's mouth tightened, his eyes trying not to rivet to the blindfold. "They unnerve me," he responded evenly. "I would think it obvious. What nation likes to be blinded and tied down?"

America gave him a smile. "Would it make you feel better if I said I weren't going to tie you down, then?" he asked, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against the corner of England's mouth.

England inhaled at the soft touch of America's lips, closing his eyes and exhaling, slightly shaky. "You're not?"

"Scout's honor," America said easily. "No gag, no binds. Just the blindfold."

England opened his eyes and looked at the other for a long moment. "Very well," he replied quietly.

He was rewarded by America's smile. England looked at it for a moment before America's hand reached forward; England flinched reflexively but calmed as America's thumb gently pressed England's eyelids closed. The strip wound around his head; firm, but not so tight it would cause pain. Thus given to darkness, England swallowed, and felt his pulse go up another notch.

"All right," he heard America say, and he turned his sightless head in the direction of the voice. "I'm going to take off your clothes… I'll hang them up; don't worry."

'Don't worry.' Right. England couldn't think of anything to say so he just nodded, and his body jumped slightly as America ghosted a kiss against his chin. Warm hands, then, at his wrists undoing the buttons there, then at his throat, opening his shirt. The hands slid along England's torso, causing the older nation to gasp; the hands pushed the shirt back and gently removed it from his body. There was a pause, and England could hear America situating the shirt on a hanger, as promised.

More shifting, then, and hands were on England's shoes. "Lift," America instructed, and England did, allowing the other to strip him of shoes, then socks; a gasp as America dropped another kiss against England's stomach and down went zipper, trou, and pants.

"Step out of them," America instructed, crouched down in front of England. "You can brace against my shoulder if you want."

Silent, England reached forward - his hand connected with America's cheek first. "Sorry," he murmured, before gripping at America's strong shoulder and doing as he was bid. Once he was entirely naked but for the blindfold, he forced himself not to self-consciously cross his arms as America hung up his clothes.

Footsteps returned, and England heard a soft chuckle. "You look as though you're awaiting a firing squad," America's voice said, amused.

England turned his head in the direction of the voice and his brows furrowed at it. "I don't think I'm outside my rights to not be entirely at my ease," he responded.

"As is the point," America replied, and England gasped quietly as he heard the other step closer, but did _not_ back away. "But I won't hurt you."

England was saved from having to respond by America's mouth closing on his own; it was a warm, wet press of lips and America's tongue flicked teasingly against the back of England's teeth. England shivered and his tongue flicked back; he reached forward and grabbed a handful of America's collar as the other had given no orders not to touch. It helped him keep a sense of balance and reality in the darkness to grab at the other; he suspected America was well-aware of this.

America didn't seem to mind his somewhat-desperate grip as those lips devoured his mouth, drawing England's lips to plumpness before moving lower to lave across jaw, clavicle, and collarbone, lower still to kiss gently at England's nipples, and, and-

America dropped to his knees, and England's body froze into position when the tip of his cock brushed the warm Cupid's bow of America's mouth. England could hear his pulse in his ears as his cock began to stand at attention at the wet warmth of America's breath against it.

"Do you want?" America's voice asked from between England's thighs, close enough to where those pillow soft lips brushed pointedly against England's foreskin.

The only sound for a long moment was England's measured breathing, before England reached down wordlessly and tugged his foreskin back in response. He could _feel_ America's chuckle against his newly-exposed cockhead and it made him _shiver_.

A brush of lips against the ridge and America's hands gripped firmly at England's hips, a show of strength to keep England supported on his feet and keep him still. Then, heavenly, wet warmth surrounding everything from tip to root.

"Ah," England said quietly, feeling blood rush to his face and his groin as pleasure started to move through his body, ebbing and flowing with the movement of America's mouth up and down and up and down along his length. It didn't take long before England felt himself starting to leak into the mouth surrounding him, and it was becoming harder to balance, even with America's hands locking him into place.

With a distant feeling that this was the point, to force the blind, pleasure-stricken nation to lean on him, England yielded and did so, reaching forward and burying his hands in America's hair to keep himself upright. America did not seem to mind.

A few bobs later, and a soft _pop_ sound - America pulling England's cock out of his mouth with an obscene sound. "I forgot. Rules for this."

"Rules," England managed weakly, seeing blood pulse behind his lids, his hands still buried in the other's hair.

"If you're about to come, tell me," America's voice said. "No coming before I say. If you do, we'll just have to wait until you can get it up again. Call me by my human name, not my nation one, and I will do the same. Safeword is 'overlord.' Understood?"

England was still trying to collect his thoughts; his cock was _hard_ and in the blindness of his mind he felt overexposed, naked, raw, torn apart, and _pulsing_ with arousal and lack of direction. "Safeword?" he managed, a little distantly.

America hummed, and England felt him start to stand; after a moment's disorientation, England moved his hands from America's hair to latch on to his biceps for purchase. America reached down and steadied England at the hips. "Yes, safeword. Again, I'm not raping you."

A distant part of England's mind wondered if that were true or only if America needed to believe it. Either way, it mattered little. A gasp caught in his throat when America's hand wrapped around his cock and started to stroke. "All right, Arthur?" America said, and England could almost hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes," England murmured in response, concentrating more on keeping his balance and controlling his arousal than responding.

…his first clue that he hadn't responded correctly was America's hand abruptly stalling on his cock. Reflexively, England lifted his head in question.

"Rule two?" America's voice prompted.

…considering how there were only two rules and the first one related to premature ejaculation, it didn't take a boffin to figure out what the other one was. "Alfred?" he asked, since the omission of the name had to be the mistake.

"That's right," America said. "However, you managed to break the rule right after I told you it, so maybe some reinforcement is called for, eh?"

America's free hand wrapped around his wrist - the other was still around his cock - and tugged him forward, but England _stood right there_ having _none_ of that, his blindfolded head snapping in America's direction.

"Come on," America said, his voice developing a softer element. "I said I wasn't going to hurt you. Remember? I'm not going to."

"What are you going to do, Alfred?" he asked, feeling a little ridiculous attaching the name to end of every sentence, but that seemed to be part of the game, now.

America's one hand was still around England's wrist; the other still around his cock. "I was thinking that a spanking would suffice," America responded cheerfully.

England could _feel_ the heat rushing up to his face; there was a corresponding _thud_ in his cock, which felt so hard and heavy and obvious that he couldn't _imagine_ America didn't feel it. By America's low chuckle, England figured America likely did.

"Your body doesn't seem to mind the idea," America continued, and England could almost _taste_ the smile on the smug bastard's face.

"Alfred, I- _ah_, _ahh_…" England's sentence was cut short by America releasing both his wrist and his cock; before England's world could reorient itself to the lack of touch, both of America's hands pinched gently at his nipples, starting to work them and roll them slowly, causing the flesh to pucker and harden. Waves of sensation rode in waves down his body and his toes _curled_ with the waves and spirals of _feeling_ starting to tighten in his balls and, and- "Alfred, I'm going to come!"

At that, America released his nipples and England floated there, wavering slightly on his feet in the hot darkness, feeling his cock drip and hearing it hit the floor. It was silent for so long that England lifted his head and reflexively started to 'look' around, despite the blindfold.

"Will you come if I spank you, Arthur?" America's voice floated, somewhere off to his left.

England swallowed air. "I don't know, Alfred," he replied.

A disembodied chuckle, and then England felt two fingers gently touch his wrist as a warning before America's strong hand wrapped around it and he carefully led the other back over to the table - thanks to being deprived of sight, England could smell the remnants of the cottage pie. A chair pulled out; England heard America sit.

"Let's give it a try regardless," America suggested. "Just let me know if it gets to be too much and I'll stop. Though…" and here America hummed, "if you don't let me know in time, I'll continue spanking you until it makes you hard again."

Another hot _pulse_ went through England's body. The threat was almost laughable (and almost would certainly prove ineffective, or at least, England hoped it would), but he was blinded, highly aroused, naked, off-balance, and embarrassed.

"What do you say?" America prompted.

…to be honest, England almost wanted to safeword. This would be the time to do it, if he were going to do so. Some dignity could be scraped up, perhaps. Maybe.

_What dignity?_ a quiet part of him asked, the part that answered. "Yes, Alfred," he said.

"Over my lap, then," America instructed, leaving England to awkwardly bend at the waist until he could feel out where America's lap was; the other nation helped steady him as he stretched out over America's strong thighs and braced his hands against the floor. The vulnerable position had his heart _racing_… but his cock was so hard he was having a difficult time finding a comfortable position. "Hang on," America grunted, and _lifted him up_ \- a started shout came out of England's mouth - before settling him back down, America's legs now spread so that England's bits wouldn't be injured.

"Sorry," America continued, one hand reaching out to rest on England's upturned ass. "Figured that was easiest."

"Would… have been easier… to tell me to _stand_," England managed to grind out, panting, heart _thudding_ in his ears and in his cock, disoriented due to lack of sight and inverted position.

This got his ass a swift, hard _smack_, drawing another cry. "Rule two?" America reminded him, a sweet edge to the query.

"…Alfred," England breathed, starting to pant. He could _feel_ the handprint down to the tips of the fingers.

"Very good, Arthur," America purred, the wide, warm hand rubbing across England's ass, palming both cheeks with a brazenness that brought _more_ color to England's face, were it possible. "Very good," America intoned again, before his hand lifted and came _down_ with a crack.

England's breath seemed to fall from his lungs as the spanking started - but, it was true, it wasn't nearly as hard as America could have been with his insane strength. At first, it seemed to be more noise than force, but it was still enough to send England gasping for breath. His legs shifted.

"Not going to come?" America finally asked, about a minute into it, his hand falling still for the moment to rub at the tingly sensation building in England's ass.

"A-ah," England managed after a moment, trying to get his blood to run to his _brain_. "I-I mean… Al-Alfred," he continued, not sure if syllables would also require the addition of the name or not. Everything was a _haze_, and each beat of his heart sent sensation through the entirety of his too-hot body.

"I will take that as a 'no,'," America said above him. One of America's arms tightened around England's middle, and England felt him shift a bit, into a more braced position. "Also… you should know that this is incredibly sexy. "

England wasn't sure how to answer that, but was saved by a _much_ firmer strike on his ass - a paddle, maybe a hairbrush, something like it. "Ah!" he cried out in surprise, before biting down on his lower lip.

This session would prove to be _much_ more punishing than the first - England's skin was already sensitized from the first go-around, and the paddle was much firmer than skin. It didn't take very long for England's legs to flutter up off the ground to protest against the strikes, and soon there was nothing but _heat_ against his behind, heat and the sound of an instrument punishing flesh atop England's ever-throbbing pulse.

At one point, England had started moaning, but didn't realize it until after America had stopped, and fluttered a gentle hand down to rest against England's backside. When England's own voice stopped, his panting seemed loud in the comparative silence.

"Can you sit up?" America asked, after a few moments of England's panting.

After a second of silence, England pushed off the ground and used the chair to help support him to a sitting position on America's lap. His face was _flushed_ red and covered with moisture from sweat, tears, and mucus - it hadn't seemed like so much until he sat up and gravity righted itself.

When he was settled - still wavering slightly - he jumped when America's comparatively cool hands cupped his face, wide thumbs wiping the snot and drool away, making it easier to breathe, running under the blindfold. England relaxed slightly into those hands, head still spinning. His cock twitched at the soft touches.

"Not so bad, then?" America asked, voice touched with a smile that England wanted to sink into.

"No more, Alfred," he heard himself say, his voice far away from himself, his voice strangely soft, loose, and light.

"No, we're done with that," America assured him. "Let's go to the bed and rest for a moment." His hand rested in the small of England's back, gently adding pressure to coax him into standing. England wasn't sure how long the walk was, but America got him there, and manipulated his body into sitting on the bed. When he started to move back, England's hands clenched reflexively in his shirt.

"I'm going to get you some water," America's voice said. "Just a moment. I'll be back." England let go because he was bade to do so, but listened intently to America's footsteps as they went to the icebox, pulled out a pitcher, filled a glass, and walked back over.

America's hand took England's and wrapped it around the glass; England's face turned in the direction of America and didn't move. After a pause, America's hand rested atop England's and guided the glass to his mouth.

"Drink, Arthur," America commanded quietly.

"Yes, Alfred," England replied, because it seemed easiest, and he was floating, and that was the command. The water was refreshing, though, and England drank it until it was gone. When it was, America removed the glass and England heard the 'clink' of it being set on the nightstand.

"Can you get on your hands and knees for me?" America asked.

"Yes, Alfred," England replied, and, well, it took a moment to figure out how he was situated on the bed, but assumed the correct position after a moment. His ass still burned, and his cock was at half-mast by this point, but the loose feeling made him feel like a marionette on strings, pulled by forces that weren't his own.

America kept a hand on England's shoulder while the other was shifting, mostly so England wouldn't panic due to loss of contact. England felt the dip of the bed behind him; heard America shifting back there, felt America's fingers on his punished ass and his fingers split his cleft and-

When America's tongue brushed against the soft pucker of skin, England's elbows gave out, sending him face-first into the mattress.

"Arthur?" America's voice asked from above him, from behind him, from everywhere. England moaned a response into the mattress, and his knees skated out.

A moment later, the tongue returned, and it didn't take long for England's cock to snap back to attention at that wetness _laving_ against him, inside him, the lips kissing his punished, hot skin, the hands kneading his hips and thighs. His balls tightened, that coil of _feeling_ twined deeper and deeper and the marionette's strings _pulled_-

"A-Alfred, I'm going to come!" England heard his voice say, colored with panic at the sudden realization. His body _clenched_, fingers twisting into the sheets and _freezing_ with military precision and discipline. The past six years had given him plenty of practice in both.

A hand rested against his side, and, mercifully, the tongue pulled away before England failed. "Shh," the voice from behind, anywhere, everywhere said. "You're doing fine. You're doing very well."

…England felt his spine relax at the praise. "Oh," he said absently. "A-Alfred," he added as an afterthought, making the voice chuckle.

"I'm going to use a finger now. To stretch you. There is lubricant." A wet finger gently touched England's entrance as proof. "If you need more, tell me. All right?"

"All right, Alfred," England replied automatically to Alfred, unable to say anything else. The finger _was_ lubricated, though, and slid through the ring of muscle easily due to England's extreme arousal and the looseness of his body and consciousness.

One finger turned into two fingers, and the warm hands along England's side kept England from spinning off the earth's gravitational pull while a low rumbling voice kept on murmuring platitudes. The two fingers scissored, and England released a low, helpless moan as a tidal wave of arousal rolled through his body.

Two fingers became three, and England was _open_, he had been split open, coaxed to looseness and the openness could only be filled by another as he was no longer closed off onto himself, nothing could stop it, no man or nation could stop it-

There was a pause, a pause where the fingers withdrew and England's breathing sped up for now he was loose and vulnerable, unable to close himself off, and anything could happen now-

When Alfred entered England, it was a relief. England was aroused, he was stretched, he was open, and he was _ready_. A noise came out of England's mouth, but he wasn't sure what it was; Alfred said something in response but England also wasn't sure.

England floated while Alfred sheathed himself to the hilt and maybe it didn't feel _right_ \- a cock in his ass generally wasn't the natural state of affairs - but it felt _good_, and England groaned a request to _move, Alfred, move_.

Alfred obliged, leaning forward, blanketing England in welcome warmth - oh, it had been so cold - and moving inside of him, stimulating those parts deep inside, reducing England to wanton noises and groans and half-pleaded sentences that made no sense but only ended in Alfred, Alfred, _Alfred_-

"I'm g-going-!" England cried out into the quilt, completely unable to use words, only a body and a voice and a lonely island laid bare to whatever would fall from the skies-

"Come, Arthur," Alfred commanded from anywhere, everywhere, nowhere. "Come."

Arthur obeyed, and Alfred filled him.

# # #

…it took America a couple of moments to come back from that, slumped over England's back, with one hand bracing himself against the mattress so he didn't accidentally crush the smaller nation. America couldn't remember a time he'd ever come harder in his _life_.

The extreme aftershocks kept him from realizing that England was _trembling_ beneath him at this point, having not moved at all since coming explosively onto the quilt below him. "I'm pulling out now," America informed the other, and slowly did so.

England… made a keening noise in the back of his throat, which… was cause for some concern. Frankly, America was… quite surprised England had gone along with the plan so wholeheartedly and hadn't balked or safeworded at all. Now that he was getting back to himself and coming down from his… well, the feeling of _power_ was definitely a high if nothing else, it… was even more concerning.

"Hey, lie down," America suggested. When England didn't move right away, America's hands went to England's hips and gently transferred his body to lying on his side. "England, are you all right?"

At the same time, America reached forward and pushed the blindfold off. England's eyes were closed, and it took… a hesitant moment for England to open his eyes and look around. When his eyes met America's again, he blinked.

…before America could say anything, England's face appeared to crumple on itself and… tears started to pour out of the other nation's eyes.

"Whoa!" America said, and sat up, which made England's hand shoot out and curl around America's in a surprising vice grip.

"Do not leave," England ordered roughly. "Not after that."

America paused for a moment, looking down at the other, and then slowly lowered himself back onto the mattress - directly into England's wet spot, which was unpleasant, but, well. England had a hand over his face, which was at least somewhat comforting to America; if the man was bothering to hide his emotions, he must be _something_ like England normally was.

After a moment, America held out a hand. "Hey," he said. England's fingers split and looked at him for a moment… before his body more or less flopped forward into America's chest, loose and slightly trembly.

America rested a hand against England's shoulder, looking at the other nation's hands covering his face. "Hey," America said again. "You… lower your hands."

America was half-expecting England to refuse, but after a couple of breaths, England shakily lowered his hands, revealing a tear-stained face. America reached forward and cupped England's face with both hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears.

He didn't bother telling England that everything would be okay. Either England believed that or he wouldn't, and America wagered he would probably believe it patronizing if America said it. Instead, America simply held England's face while he cried, brushing away the tears over and over and over again until there were no more.

They slept like that, upside-down on the bed with the pillow at their feet, England's body half-atop America's with America cradling his head.

# # #

_December 29, 2006_

America had been expecting the visit. In fact, it had been arranged. It was actually the only thing that could get America into his office in the days between Christmas and New Years.

England opened the door, and America gave him a lopsided smile. "Heya," America said, nodding his head to the other nation.

England snorted. "Hey," he responded in kind. "It's paid."

"I know, I got the memo from your Secretary to the Treasury already," America said, holding up the piece of paper with a smile. "News travels a little faster these days than it did in the mid-40's, I'm afraid."

That made England smile in return. "Indeed," he agreed. There was a moment of silence as the two nations looked at each other. "I've got a couple of questions for you, though, now that the whole business is settled."

"Yeah?" America asked, standing from his desk and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. Taking a swig of it, he offered it to England, who took it.

"Number one," England said, tipping the bottle back and taking a swig before handing it back. "Was it all worth it, O Mr. Great Superpower? Economic center of the world, largest military, commander of all he sees?"

America rolled his eyes. "If only you'd refer to me that way in meetings," he replied, rubbing a hand against his face. He felt older these days, much older, and knew he looked it, as well. "I don't think that's a very easy question to answer. Was it worth building the Empire, back in the day?" Swig. Pass the bottle.

England took it again with a snort. "I suppose the true answer is 'yes, and no,' then." Swig. "Question two." There was a long pause this time, which made America raise an eyebrow. "Why in the world did you want me to call you 'Alfred' back then, and not 'America?'"

…America immediately knew what he was talking about, and took the bottle back from England with a snort. "Answer honestly: how hard and how long would I have had to beat the hell out of you in order for you to moan 'America' the way you moaned 'Alfred'? I've always been under the impression you'd literally eat shit before you bent the knee to another _nation_. Alfred is just a man." Swig.

"You're under the right impression," England responded, and chuckled. "Now that we're even, though, it appears that bottle is empty. Next round will be on me."

"Yeah," America said, and put the bottle down to go retrieve his coat.

# # #

Historical notes (the short, short version):

The Truman administration abruptly ended the Lend-Lease act in September of 1945, right after Victory in Japan day. A lot of this was due to rising concern over funding the USSR (who also had access to Lend-Lease materials). This abrupt end to the policy caused alarm in many countries, including the UK. As much of Britain had been utterly decimated by the end of the war, it relied on Lend-Lease to feed its people and had been counting on continuing Lend-Lease support in order to help rebuild its infrastructure. Even though Britain had sacrificed much and won the war, the war had cut the economy out from under the country. The winter of 1945 was one of the coldest in history and killed the wheat crop, leading to the beginning of bread rationing _after_ the war had ended. A poor potato crop lent itself to potato rationing. In fact, rationing in Britain would continue until the mid-1950s.

When Lend-Lease was discontinued, a delegation was sent from Britain to the US (including notable economist John Maynard Keynes) in order to try and secure a grant from the US to help rebuild Britain. The British originally thought that they would easily get money from the US due to the loose terms of Lend-Lease and the fact that Britain had been in the war longer and suffered far more. This turned out to be far from the case, as many Americans were opposed to even offering a loan to the British, let alone a grant. Lots of Americans distrusted Europe as a whole at this point, having been dragged into two large-scale wars and wanting nothing to do with it.

However, many American powers saw lots to gain by aiding Britain, at least in terms of self-gain. Much of the British Empire's prewar prominence and wealth was due to something called the Sterling Area which (to make a long story short) basically encouraged inter-Empire trade and discouraged extra-Empire trade with high tariffs, and made the Commonwealth countries dependent on the pound. This setup looked troubling for the US. Despite the US not incurring any structural damage due to WWII and losing far fewer people than any power in Europe or Asia, it was dealing with a large influx of soldiers returning home and also the issue of women who had started working during the war and didn't want to return to their former status. The manufacturing capacity of the US had also had the lid blown off it from WWII.

This meant that the US had a large available working population and enormous manufacturing capacity, but now needed a new market since the war was over. The British Empire would provide a huge potential market for US export, but the current Empire Preference (Sterling Area) system provided a hindrance to this. In this vein, the US saw great promise in providing a lifeline to desperate postwar Britain: in return for a loan, Britain would agree to give up the Sterling Area, agree to the Bretton Woods convention, and acquiesce to paying interest on the loan.

Most in Britain found the terms and the offer absolutely insulting, but there were few other choices. The British Empire had been borrowing from its own colonies heavily, and political discord (particularly in India and Pakistan) loomed. Eventually, the British agreed to the loan.

The Anglo-American loan helped pave the way for the new world order, where the US asserted itself as an economic superpower alongside the Soviet Union. The British Empire essentially was no more. The loan also helped the US realize that in order to prevent more strife in Europe and to prevent communism from looking like a good option to a desperate Western Europe, the US had to help rebuild. This gave way to the Marshall Plan of 1947. A popular political cartoon of the day presented two giant question marks to the American public: "Can we afford to help Europe?" and "Can we afford to not help Europe?"

Ultimately, America did choose to help Europe, but also got a considerable amount out of the bargain. In terms of the Anglo-American loan, the fixed 2% interest was extremely generous in the grand scheme of things, and Britain was also able to purchase goods from the US with the loan at ten cents on the dollar. Britain paid back the Anglo-American loan in full on December 29th, 2006.


End file.
